Nulla Salvatio
by Tristana
Summary: For years, he had kept this rage inside, thinking that he could protect. But there is a thin line between killing to protect and killing because he can. Now, Ezio's mind is unravelling, as he crosses this line. And La Volpe is his reluctant witness. Salvation is just a word.


I heard all about the 'M-rated fics are being removed'. So if someone from the website happen to be on this page: this story is a real M. (Man, just get back with the MA, kids are reading pron on AFF anyway, who are you fooling?)

This fanfic comes from this prompt: "I want something where Ezio doesn't grow up mostly sane but with a vendetta and a responsibility to the order. Instead, I want him to show the stress on his psyche he has been dealing with since he was a teenager. I want all the problems that he gets dealt with to just keep building up till he ends up more then a little insane in the 'I'll kill them all before they kill me' fashion. He can work with the order still, but to him it's just a means to an end. I want him to become a crazy BAMF." (This is on Part 4 of Kinkmeme, page 24).

Warning: Ezio going crazy means many slaughtered guards, scary thoughts. But it's not a gore galore so do not fear. I will not rant about split skulls and torn limbs. (Again, this is Assassin's Creed so I do hope you guys can handle a bit of blood.^^)

Summary: For years, he had kept this rage inside, thinking that he could protect. But there is a thin line between killing to protect and killing because he can. Ezio is crossing this line, and Volpe has to watch. Salvation is just a word. (And a mean for the Pope to make a lot of money but that's not the point.)

'Nulla Salvatio' means 'No Salvation' in Lation, though 'salus, i (m)' exists - it's just too close to the 'Extra Ecclesiam Nulla Salus', which is not too appropriate for Ezio. (My Latin is a decade old and therefore, I may have misused the case. This is supposed to be nominative.) /rant

* * *

There was no way he could keep on like this. He could still see their faces – frozen in terror for his little brother, assumed defeat for Federico and righteous outrage for his father. Carved in his head, sometimes he found himself awaking as though he was in the middle of a run – always stopped before he reached the gallows. In some dreams, he could fly high, only to crash on the ground as the plug was pulled. Snapping sound of cords and bones. His own voice waking him. And now, there was more – Mario stumbling into the dust – the scream of a gun. The betrayal. The pain – his shoulder reminding him of this moment he fell from the roof after being shot himself. It was everywhere. Looking at himself all he saw were scars. Old and new – bringing memories back. His family, his failure to protect them. His failure to protect Cristina. And to think that his sister and mother could have died had Claudia not wielded a blade so skilfully. It made him want to scream – and he did, in the darkness of his room, silent rage rippling across the room, bouncing of the walls and back to him. In the pale moonlight slanting in the room, he could see his sword, his armour. He would not rest. Never rest until they were all dead. He had tried to keep quiet, to be careful. To avoid killing. Not anymore.

"I worry about him."

"Why would you, Ciro? The Mentore is no different than before, stop fretting. You're worse than a mother hen!"

"He's not himself."

"What do you mean?"

"Recall that Captain guarding the Tower in the Antico district?"

"What of him?"

"His body was mangled, unrecognisable."

"Look, the Mentore must have his reasons."

"If you say so..."

"Now come, we have a day off and I still have to get you drunk!"

Hearing such conversation really did not soothe La Volpe's nerves. After years dealing with Ezio, he could see something was off, but what could he possibly do? They were all weary, that much was certain. He would need to talk to Ezio about this. Maybe he should talk to Machiavelli – they would have to keep an eye on Ezio. If what his recruits said was true, and Ezio's doing, then the situation was more dire than he could have feared. All things considered, it was to be expected. And the man always had had to keep a brave front for all to see, to the point that no one ever noticed anything. But La Volpe knew when a man was falling apart and that was certainly near Ezio's breaking point.

He could hear them still, the accusations. He knew people knew what he did. That captain had not deserved it – at least this was what part of his mind told him. But the largest part of all was still raving, revelling in the bloodshed. He had not started this. They did. They did destroy his family and everything else he ever cared for with their conspiracies and grand schemes. _But it was Borgia's doings. Not those guards. They just follow orders, like your recruits. Can you blame them for obeying orders? _They could rebel. _What of their families? In their place, would you risk the life of __your kin?_ It had nothing to do with that. Nothing at all. It was not comparable. There was nothing he could have done. _You had to rebel. You had no choice. But you have the choice now. To show mercy or not. _No. No mercy shall ever be dealt to them. He left that to God and their flimsy Indulgences. Salvation bought by people's fear and suffering. They would pay.

Stalking the rooftops, a silent shadow – a shadow that left in its wake muffled cries and corpses draining their bloods across tiles. Red against red – a darkened purple in the night. A bruise on the city that could be seen from Heaven alone. Suddenly, the shadow crumpled to the ground. Thankfully a hand managed to catch their arm before the fatal fall down the roof. Four stories were enough to maim a man, especially if he was unconscious. La Volpe got his burden back onto the roof. It had to stop – but Ezio would not listen. It was too early for him to. And he was not going to complain if there were fewer guards around. At least Ezio was careful enough not to act where the killings would be useless – he had watched those guards – they often ran after his men like hounds after a hare.

For a while, he just sat there, waiting for the assassin to stir. He would leave then, there would be no point in confronting him now. However, he would stick to the man like a shadow from now on – mindless slaughter would come about and that day, he would need to be there, if only to prevent useless bloodshed. Ezio's breathing grew shallower, a sign that he soon would wake.

"You are strong, Ezio. But if you go too far, memories will eat you alive." Just like guilt was still whipping his conscience into a bleeding mess every single time he thought about Ezio's coming into the Assassins' world. It was not right. It was not fair.

"Volpe?"

"You collapsed. Could have fallen from there too." So much for stealthily going away. He would have to work on that, really.

"Thank you."

"Don't thank me. Just get a grip on yourself – guards may be expendable for the Borgias but I doubt you would ever become so appreciated for people to forget Assassins are killing members of their family while claiming to help." He had no idea where that came from. One thing was certain, Ezio was not going to like that. Not at all. Oh well, let it be damned to Hell. He never cared what Giovanni thought of his tongue-lashing, there was no way he could care about Ezio's qualms. And the kid needed to be shaken for good. Maybe there was hope if the young one could see the broader picture.

"I... I know Volpe." He paused for a moment, as though he wanted to take back what he had said. "But we needed to clear the area anyway, you knew it."

"I do." No point in arguing then. If Ezio decided so, there was no need for him to make an enemy out of a friend.

With that, he left. Silently, like the fox he was, back to his lair. To think and wonder. Leaving Ezio to his own devices, which may not have been such a wise move in retrospect. But if Volpe started to think about all the 'what if' that made up his life, he would be drowning in regrets. And he was not keen on dying.

Things had been quiet for weeks now and it was not to make anyone else feel better. Something was brewing and Maria herself had begun to worry. Ezio had grown even more secluded. He could not tell them. Tell them of those voices haunting his nights, calling him back on what he did and what he did not. His inability to protect his family – his inability to foresee the Borgia's attack on Monteriggioni. He had been a fool and he had yet to pay the full price. They all ended up leaving – Cristina, Caterina. Though the later simply used him, that much he knew. And maybe he deserved it, to be used by others. It was all he could do to keep from breaking, to know someone somewhere would make his actions worthwhile. The Cento Occhi had been moving, and this time he had not acted – sending his recruits do the work. He did not trust himself with them – and they were not the ones he was after. The Borgia livery had become a sign of doom in the city – should anyone want to get rid off someone could make them wear the livery, and they'd be done for. It was not mindless slaughter – he had been careful – one here, one there – men important to Cesare. The last captain had breathed his last already. Rome was free or so it seemed. Maybe it was over. Maybe... And thus he was creeping over the rooftops, keeping silent watch over the city. He had vowed to keep those he cared for safe.

_Good resolutions would lead you nowhere. You killed too much of them. The blood won't wash away from your hands, no matter how white your outfit. You are responsible and people will still suffer. _He had to silence that voice eating at him. It was his own voice – though younger. The voice he may have had long ago. Long before it all began. Or ended. The fight was not new – how could his own father be so resigned, caring for justice but not for his own life. Much as he had done. The sound of crowd waking him – he saw a shadow on a roof nearby, looking like an assassin, only blacker. A negative version of himself. That image was looking at him. Who was he? Shaking his head, he looked down – the Piazza Navona was crowded – and in the midst of the yelling crowd-

And it crumbled, he could hear it fall apart, that wall behind the world and himself. Carefully constructed protections against nightmares torn to shred by a glance. Gallows. And people waiting to be executed. Three of them – again. It was not right. It was wrong, it wasn't them. No it wasn't. It could not be. There was a woman with them. Dark hair, stern features – a matron who insulted the Carnefice. The carnefice did not care. He would never allow for it to replay itself. No he would not. A fall from the building, neck-breaking – and not so. Rush in the crowd – slow. Too slow, a sense of déjà-vu, the sinking feeling of being too late. Density of time coalescing against his legs – unable to run. A shout. Guards swarming the place, not fast enough for him to reach the gallows. Pull on the plug – and the fall with broken necks. He could have crumbled there and then. Instead, rage overwhelmed him, rising out of his body in a primal scream. That of a wounded beast. And after that, it was nothing but a blur – he would not remember how he got to the gallows, cutting the ropes – perhaps they would survive. Perhaps it was not to late. No time to think, as a guard grabbed him from behind. Blade through the ribs, yowl of pain and fall backward. All went unseen – his senses overloaded – the stench of blood and fear.

La Volpe hoped for someone to come and tell him he was dreaming. He even hoped for Machiavelli to barge through the door of the tavern to shake him from drunken stupor. It had to be it. The piazza was empty, silent – he had seen guards on his way, but none appeared to try and come close. He had come as soon as he heard the ruckus. A few streets to cross, as fast as he could – and it was too late already. People muttering about the devil, a devil drenched in red who destroyed the Piazza Navona.

He could not believe his eyes – corpses scattered all over, the normally whitened stones turning shades of red – from pink to crimson. Ragged breathing – from the ones barely alive enough to draw it. It was a wreck. It was then that he saw him – under the gallows, a child hidden under a table to avoid being seen. A sham – a shame. La Volpe could barely make out his silhouette but his posture was something he had seen way enough in his life. He had seen it way too often.

"Ezio?"

He had to be careful lest the assassin would bolt and attack. He waited until empty eyes lift to see him – without recognition. Was he too far gone? Guilt gutted him, leaving him to stagger slightly. It was nothing but a repeat of what had happened all these years before. He had been around, though unbeknownst to all – except for Giovanni. Because of that stupid promise made to a living friend he never could forget about the dying man.

Ezio had seen the figure approaching – though he could not care less. Part of him still knew it would not be a guard – none would approach. Looking around, it was as though he were in the midst of a sea slowly retreated leaving the bones of a shipwreck bared to scavengers. The smell of blood was overpowering in the heavy heat of the day. He could not let go – she was still breathing. He knew she was alive, and though he knew she may never move as she used to again, she was alive. His thoughts running in circle – so much death, so little to find in its wake. There was nothing but revenge – a hunger for justice that had slowly ebbed to bare his mind to the assaults of time and frustration. He could not save them.

"Ezio..." What could he say? But he would not need to say anything at all.

This voice. La Volpe – the knowledge stabbed through the maze that his mind had formed from crumbled walls. He was weary, so weary to fight. All for nothing. He would kill them all – he vowed it.

"I will destroy them. Killing... it's not enough. More come still. I'll destroy the ground on which they walk."

"You walk the same ground, are you so eager to fall into the pit?"

Ezio could but nod. He became aware that he could not even feel the sun – or the cold – the blood drying into crusts on his face, his hands. Blood that was not his. Blood. His body lurched forward, shaking. He could not help it, it was as though his very body was repelling the thoughts. He could not live like this, he could not – and he would take as many as he could into the grave. The order was an excuse for vengeance. Draped him in a cloak of righteousness to masquerade callous murder into something higher. He threw himself on the side, away from the woman he had been holding. She was dead, he was sure. What of the delusion of life, if only to keep him from facing the uselessness of it all? Worthless. Dead inside. The thoughts rushed through his skull, he could not shake it off, could not. He jumped when strong arms caught him, forcing him into an embrace from which he could not escape. He could not. Could not.

"What is broken can be mended. But you have to let it go. Let it go." Let it go and help me forget I was too blind to act at the time. Guilt was ripping through him but it was not the time to dwell on it. All he could do was hold Ezio, waiting for all to break loose.

These words. How many times had he hoped to hear them, without being able to force himself to do it? Pain stabbed him through the ribs, choking him – he could not breath, his heart taking so much space, compressing all the rest. Throat clutching sounds he never thought he could ever make. It had all been for nothing, guards coming back. He knew he would kill them all. In the distance, a shattering scream. A woman calling for someone. Not someone from the gallows – he glanced away from La Volpe's shoulder, in time to see a young woman fall to her knees by the lifeless body of one of the guards that had tried to stop him. It hit him. The sorrow, incomprehension – the scorching horror plain in her body language. And it was his fault. For his revenge. He had wrought on others what had been done to him. A distant knowledge brought into his face. His fingers curled in his old friend's cloak – the stability he needed. He would kill them all and he would destroy their lives – that of their loved ones. He would be hated.

"I killed these men."

"You did." Soft, almost inaudible. Comprehensive. He did not deserve this. It would be easier if La Volpe was lashing out at him.

"I could not save them. I could not save her."

"Salvation is not for men to bestow, or at least this is what I am now coming to believe." Because no one could be saved from their fate. No one.

"I..." He was not sorry, but the empathy he was feeling for this woman kneeling in blood and gore was too strong. He could understand her hatred. He could not keep going. Not like this. Not without a better reason. He would go insane, slaughtering anyone standing in his path. It terrorized him. Part of him, the young boy he once had been was terrified of the man he had grown to become. He had not known what he was doing until it was much too late. Hands slowly drawing circles on his back – his father used to do that when he was a child. And he was there again. A child screaming from a nightmare – screaming he was, in silent, mouthing air as he buried his head in the shoulder of the thief. His body was shaking, but instead of trying and make it stop, he let it go. All the rancour, the rage, the frustration – and the grief. This grief that had enslaved him instead of making him strong. He was letting it go.

La Volpe sat there, waiting patiently. He felt sorry for what he had forced Ezio to see. He was no fool, he knew what brought that up. He was thankful for this young lady – though he knew she would hardly appreciate the fact that she helped somehow the one who killed the man she probably loved. He left him be – it would stop eventually. He would never tell Ezio that he was crying. For all their cathartic properties, tears of a Master Assassin could not be spoken of. He was pretty sure the young one did not know – as his body kept being racked by silent sobs, unable to scream. A pain beyond words. He would heal, in time, though in the back of his mind will remain this fear – that of giving in to bloodlust. That of rage overcoming reason. Fear of himself. Finally, the storm seemed to pass, until Ezio leaned back to look at him, looking as though he had run for hours.

"Volpe... I... I think sanity escaped me."

"Sanity is a word. You are a man of deeds, Ezio. Your mind is your own. You are not insane." Not more insane than any of us who had wandered that path for so long.

"I..."

And then, Volpe had enough. He had to shake some sense into Ezio – after all, they were still in the middle of a slaughter. "Ezio, there'll be time for this, later. Right now, we need to get out."

"But-"

"No, listen to me: you are an assassin, and these guards are fighting for the Borgias. Just as those joining us, they know the risks. They know they may die. So whatever you are feeling now, just know this: going from indifference to care would not alleviate the weight of their deaths on the lives of their relatives. You are no saviour, but it's no reason to kill without reason. Do you really think this is what your father had in mind when he directed you to his garb? Do you think Mario meant you to destroy lives that could be spared when he taught you to fight? Do you think this is what your parents wanted you to become? Be sensible, your mother would not bear it." He took a deep breathe – maybe saying so much was unwise but he had no time.

"You are right..." It hurt like a ton of bricks crashing on him but he knew Volpe was right. His father had wanted him to protect his mother and his sister. The revenge had been secondary. "I stopped protecting, is that what you are telling me?"

"It is. Now we have to go, Ezio. I will let you think about it, later."

This 'later' brought back memories to Ezio, memories he had tried to ward off for a long time. Breaking-point was not to far.

"Ezio."

"I'm fine, Volpe."

"You're not." With that, La Volpe helped Ezio to his feet, muttering words for the poor wretches' souls. Just in time, as papal guards began to pour in the area. Hidden in a side street, heading for a tunnel to go back to the Lair, Ezio suddenly stopped.

"Volpe."

"What?"

"If things get out of hands. Could you..." Could you kill me?

La Volpe knew it would be of no use, but how could he refuse? He knew the signs of Ezio's loss of sanity. He knew there would be no remission, only an apparent calmness. But he knew better: it was rooted into the young man's mind and body. And he had a feeling that Ezio knew that as well. "I will, Ezio. I can't promise you, as a thief's promise may not be worthy of anything. And we know at least two women who would have my hide for that. But I will."

Ezio looked at La Volpe – he was not lying. He just hoped that it would not come to that. Once the Borgias will be dealt with, he will retire. He would not have any reason to fight anymore. He would stop. Once they are dead, the killings will stop.

At least, he wanted to believe it.

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Comments, thoughts, even tomatoes are welcome. (For the tomatoes, olive oil and mozzarella are a plus.)


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